Fleeting

For the moment when you really
get the senselessness of early
violent death. For the era
when you begin to see outside
yourself and name your ways.
For the list of things you
made and the things you
just keep doing. Ongoing,
habits, practices that keep
you from accelerating. These
are the moments of clarity.

"Fault"

is selfish
is arrogant
is judgmental
is critical
is insecure
had low self-esteem
loves to gossip
loves attention
likes to talk about herself
desires approval
likes to write
may cut people out
doesn't like confrontation
puts no one before herself
likes control
likes to hug
may play around
is secretive
is sneaky
likes somebody else to do it
doesn't trust herself on occasion
is obsessive compulsive
gets easily frustrated
can be flippant
can be very callous
likes to dominate
loves being held
is frivolous sometimes
rushes to conclusions
thinks in stereotypes
is very generous
doesn't like to share
is oddly jealous
wears a shield
would love to fight
gets distracted
takes
likes to steal
hates/obsesses over her body
wishes she were ...................
(something else?)
appropriates things
loves to buy
has lots of remorse, especially after drinking
blacks out
can't remember things
is impulsive
hates the mess
struggles with depression
(sometimes)
has a morose side (and loves Morose)
wants to be the people she admires
wishes she were cooler,
more elusive somehow
wants to fuck
hates to blow (not really,
but loathes to gag)
thinks she smells
wants long legs, or,
wants to be small
wishes she were one of
"those"
wants (to be) a muse
Loves fashion (buy! buy!
buy!)
wants a different nose
different cheekbones, maybe
is very critical of others (mostly
strangers, sometimes
acquaintances, occasionally
friends)
scrutinizes bodies
likes to watch
enjoys being catered to
hates shop ladies
likes dressing up
enjoys walking like a bitch
with things to do
hates tardiness
has recently become less punctual
likes getting away with things
masturbates.
takes what people say to, or about her,
to heart
is sensitive?
wants to live lavishly
wishes all her friends were okay
wants the fucking house
to be finished
wants her room back
is good at bullshitting
can make a pretty lie
loves to be alone
wants people to adore
her
likes being "the kid"
and being called "mature"
(what used to be "mature for her age")
is attracted to older men
doesn't find their wrinkles sexy
is drawn to blondes
like bees to honey
can talk a good one
often fails to act
is complacent
wishes she were better
is human.

A Fable Is A Lie

Tell me something truthful
Something that will really make me smile
Teach me some Italian
So I can say, Reconta mi
una storia a cena
I don't mind a fable with a moral,
or an emotion
that presides in context
I just can't take another
conversation
with so much unsaid subtext
The conversation we never had
is even plaguing me today
I am wondering whether it was
worth it to have my friend say
"You know,
He didn't put it that way
In fact, he said something very different,"
which makes me think
that you're weak
or maybe just oblivious
Is this the one card that you hold
to pull out of your back pocket
To say, here, look at this one,
ain't she a beauty to break up
with?
Were your lies pure boasting?
Immature fodder?
Something to hold on to?
To cross your t's and dot your i's
with?
Yes, our relationship changed
And in a matter of days
We went from a swing set
to a dance floor
to a South African trumpeter
I found you dependable then, and
even more, exciting.
Yet, even then, I never once let go
of the ways we were divided
But we had potential
And that's what matters
No wringing hands or nervous glances
Your job, your family, music, was
enough to keep you steady
And me, too, I decided.
I had my own priorities.
And still, I relished finally having someone
to lavish with my romances
You were a worthy one, and a good fit.
Bright, delivering quips.
Corny, but not enough so
that I couldn't appreciate your shtick.
So why did you have to lie
in light of everything that's good?
You know and I know what we had
and what we could...
We grew close, I left for school,
we tried our best,
but grew apart.
You visited me, and I came home,
but by the time I returned,
we were set adrift.
Recreating magic in the company
of your kin, I grew to love them more
because of the mood they put
me in.
We were good, great even, but our sex
was off...
and you knew it.
So I abstained one night
and that's when you lost it.
Do you remember this?
And do you remember what happened
after?
We parted amicably after 2 days
of each other's absence.
I was sad, and so were you, but
in no great deal of pain.
You were always sweet with me,
and we parted without blame.
So why must you breathe life
into a stale story that never was?
Was it my devotion in the beginning
that I chose to call love?
I didn't plague you with this admission
I offered it up as a gift
My heart, a piece of it, take it if
you wish
Take it or leave it
is my motto for the soul
To protect me from those
who might misread
what I consider bold.
I'm yours for the taking,
if I offer and you accept.
But I am not here
to be called
a desperate puppy
out of fear and neglect.
I loved you, for what it's worth,
for that moment in time.
All I ask is that you relish it.
Instead of making up
our story, why not just try
telling it in rhyme?

An Open Letter

If you would apologize, just say you're sorry for not calling me yesterday, then maybe I would be OK. Your word is bond, right? Only problem is, I don't think you know that. Only issue is, your non-communicative ways tell me more than anything you could say now. I know you had a birthday party to plan, maybe even a birthday pie to bake, but your actions, like you say, speak louder than words. (So Cliché.) Your inaction, I should say. Don't tell me you want to take me somewhere and then just leave me hanging (how's that for cliché?). I invite you to do something; hell, I invite you to be a part of my life, but you choose not to respond, you chose to abstain. People will forget what you did, they'll forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel. Thank you Ms. Angelou

You make me feel agitated, constantly. For wanting substantial, equal, and fair communication from you, which you consistently fail to give. You make me feel powerless, weak, as if my words and my desires lack merit. You don't privilege my internal being, the wealth I have to give, as I do for you, or would do if you gave me the opportunity, the day, the time. I wasn't lying when I said I'd be there for you. It took a lot out of me, to make that ongoing commitment to you. I said it because I wanted to do it, to be this person for you--accountable. But with you, any promise you give me makes it seem as if you feel obligated. You say you don't know what's good for you, or it's an idea as yet unformed, so therefore you have no idea what you want from me. You give (or you gave) yourself to me because you thought that's what I wanted (which I did), but the taking, the receiving, isn't what makes the exchange sweet. The gift, free of obligation, is, will always be, the most satisfying form of exchange. I just don't know if you and I are capable of such an exchange. I saw it at Burning Man, I've seen it in me brewing inside. With a gift, the only reward is the selfish pleasure you get from making someone else happy. That's powerful. However, your compulsion, your automatic instinct to please achieves no greater happiness for you, I think. You do it because you think you should. Because it's right, for you. Because you feel the need. But do you ever feel pleased afterward, or do you just feel relieved?

That's my deepest fear. The one that staked this relationship from the beginning. Impaled my love and buried it under a the sad déchets of insecurity. Organic matter not close to the heart, superficial worries, the concern that you don't really care for me, but are acting out this charade for fear of my reactions, and pity for my dreams. How many times can you assure me that this is true before I let it go, exhale hope into the air, enliven my senses, begin contributing something back to our union.

I would love to be strong in this with you. But your non-commitment, your inconsistency, robbed me of that core. Feeling like I'm spinning yarn around an empty spool, one half of a whole. Or a quarter, even. I would love to love you. Because I want you to want me. But if you don't know what you want, what does that leave me with? A lot of wishes, unfulfilled. I might as well be crazy (trying the same thing twice and expecting a different outcome).

I Just Might

Yes, I am attracted to you
And your thin upper lip
A crescent that I wish to hold
on the sickle of my kiss.
The bristle of your mouth
plowed the hedges of my pout
And you left a freshly tilled
sensation that circled
in the round
I could not forget you.
I went home and laid down
Left my inhibitions with my
keys adjacent to my keys on the ground
A resounding wave
A repeating feeling
Something undefined
That you conjured
Left me reeling
I am convinced
that you are up to something
conniving or cunning
The willful way you let
me run the perimeter of
your mind
Personal indulgence be damned
"I didn't know if I wanted to
kiss you but that was very nice"
I wasn't fooling but I never
seem to know what's right
My inclination is to walk away
from an otherwise perfect night
I might
I might have known that
another one would come
bounding in from the throngs
With your pearls and your yarn
that you seem to string
along
I am wary of your wisdom
Your mischievous grin
Your conniving and your
cunning
The wiliness within
"But she's not garrulous," you
said.
And we cracked up with the knowing
We kept going
while I receded if only for
a moment
Do I surrender in defeat?
This never felt like a
battle
But I am hard-pressed to
find the calm that would
allow us to settle
Allow me
Let's enlighten ourselves
A million flashbulbs
just went off
We're dazzling ourselves
And the creases in your skin
never looked more
inviting
Than when I was certain
of what I was and
What I would be hiding.
Your mischief and your
cunning
Your prickly grin, half a laugh
and something shifting
on your lips
What looks to be a scar
What could have been a split
I want to tell you that
I know you and
That I know you're full of
it
But I lost it when I said "here"
and you took my hair and pulled it.
It isn't fair the way you
looked at me when the smoke
began to clear
Treading lightly around a burning perimeter fence
But my lips and your lips
just made so much sense.

Aftermath

I can imagine us on your motorcycle
A thought I've never had before
A gidget and her rugged Ken
Beach blanket bingo gone before
Just the sun and the road
Highway #1
No more Lolita eyes
trapped inside the fantasy
All grown up, maybe 16
I've taken to you wanting me.
Stopped the act at 17
Grown past the angst of 18-19
The indifference of 20 and cautious power of 21
And promptly regressed into mature young lady-dom
Still coquette, with a bandanna
in my hair
But something like that '50s flair
I wonder whether refurbished
wreckage still rusts in salty air

9/26

My first battle "rap"; Love vs. Love

Take It Or Leave It,
Call me arrogant
Because I felt like it.
I challenge you to love me with
the same kind of music.
You love me, you love me
And I'm devoted to the artform
More interested in praising
Than giving you the strong arm
I'm the hold steady
You're the rocking ship
I think the gods first named
you under the title:
Integrity is Bullshit
You're the wishy-washy
I'm the tub stopper
I've loved you more than
your poppy and your doting
grandmother
Test this devotion
Float some oil on this water
Check the temperature and
tell me if I'm ever tepid
fodder
I will provide you with none
Give you powdered flour for
your gun
Fill your bullets with sugar
And then you try to hurt someone
Try me, try to break down this
façade
The so-called wand that you
wield when you
called it a mirage
I know you fell for me,
And I know you remember
when you got up
Your knees were bruised from the impact
and your head was concussed
I couldn't have given you a
cushion if you'd stuffed me
with feathers
but I was gathering
affection
as you blew oxygen
on a fire that was a mere
apparition
I can't be blamed for a boat
when what you wanted was
a house
Mine was just as good
but you had to know I'd paddle
out
I loved you for the infinitesimal moment
that we had, but that passed
That doesn't mean it wasn't valid
Some things weren't meant to last

Explanation

When they ask, I will say "irreconcilable differences." The novelty of using the phrase appeals to me. I never knew what it meant until now. I'm fond of toying with my personal tragedies, making them all the more alluring. To the naked eye, it is just another sorrowful tale. For me it is drama. Theater of life. The tragicomic way that I draw out my grievances. Everybody is a writer. Everybody is an artist. What do the corporate blanks do in their free time? When the winding gears, the winding gears come slowly to a halt? This is when art beckons me. I want to do something creative. Make something colorful, weave something beautiful with my hands. Something light and iridescent like a bubble suspended on a spiderweb (something my dad just remarked about outside my window.) Art is beautiful, life is sadness, Art = Life (as Inside Out taught me) so sadness equates to beauty. I'm making my break-up beautiful by putting it into song. So this passage, this passage, this passage is my song. I'm making art out of life.

Poppycock

Getting drunk on an afternoon in Studio City
Placed among so many lonely wayfarers
With their kids, and snowcones, and megapixels
And what kind of lens have you got there?
Going on a run when it’s 90 + degrees in the dead of Spring
Thinking that it’s crazy to be slowly
Inducing such exasperating dehydration
...Goddamn, you must be out your mind, son!
(Though he could be my father’s age)
I exit the car and approach the bleachers
Son of Todd, daughter occasionally
Wearing a dress today
That’s liable to attract attention
I laugh and smile like it’s easy
Spread laughter, tell jokes, keep paces with the menfolk
Or just sit silently
Intent to watch the game in my unworn hat
Remembering the feel of the bat in my hands
The butterflies in my stomach every time I’d prepare to swing
I reminisce
As I am eyed and I feel lazy,
Uncomfortable and sleight
Lost of my power of sight behind shaded sunglasses
I am unable to describe to them my lethargy
Merely able to lay my head down on my mother’s lap
As menfolk pass by, sometimes inquiring aimlessly
Seemingly hitting on me
Others vaguely interested
Like being sniffed out by docile retrievers
That like to play ball, who enjoy playing fetch
The 9th inning comes after I have already reached the brink of madness and lost
To heat induced lethargy with which I cannot compete

At the bar afterwards, Joe T. asks why a college co-ed would refuse a beer
Limit herself to two
Play it smart
(oh only if you knew)
Yeah, I’m not that interested in beer
I want something nourishing, but then…
That first sip is so icy cold, such a good first drink
I think of funneling the alcohol down my throat with a syringe
Chilling my veins, shooting it up like liquid coolant under my skin
I am uninterested in this 30-something scene for comic loners
Some of them obscenely drunk on the patio
(Some of them, my father and uncle, age notwithstanding...)
I look past the fading couple
Sitting next to a drunk
They’ve got dogs
And we have our two Shelties, and Lyle, my uncle’s graying dachsund.
Rendered moot by stupidity and old age.
We are at the Oyster Shack
Only familiar from various photos taken when I’ve been away
It’s the first time I’ve experienced such a place
The place
For drinking after the game, infamous
I notice the Codgers pennant on the shelf above the bar
And almost as suddenly, I am asked to sign.
But beforehand, I am casually ogled,
Looked over with cautious tendency
Not to deny a glance, I return them with eyes a bit drunkenly
Distracted, but more so bewildered by my father’s arrogance and complacency

What?! I am silently wondering
You gave my number to Sean?
When, and why did this happen?
I’ll have to wait til the car ride to find out
To hear my father’s story,
That they were both (my parents) disappointed to find out that I wasn’t meeting anybody, so he figures why not?
In the event of drunken honesty, the frays in our perfect familial social fabric starting to show, he admits to the crowd that I am
Lonely,
unhappy, even.
Possibly enough to date one of these poor saps...
And anyways, Sean is a stand-up guy, he says.
He’s curious and he’s funny, I think.
Oddly, he lives in Echo Park and I’m almost certain he does the weathered or
well-seasoned hipster thing.
I haven’t met anybody like him, but nonetheless. I am uninterested.
His greasy beard, his Pennsylvania hideaway,
his standing as the all-around favorite among the men on the team.
I don’t care…
This was a year ago, or more most likely.
And besides, I’ve been seeing Nick.
Nonetheless, I can sense what the heat is doing
Making their vision blurry
Bringing on the hominy smile
I probably smell like bacon to them
Comfortable and homey.
A little wary of the consequences…
Or not.
Yeah, I’ve been here before
Attracting sad old men
Wistful for something they think they can’t have,
But Maybe.
Who knows what they’re really thinking
Lonely hearts club men
Some of them even married
Some at the game indifferent
I don’t like the ones I can’t touch
The ones that escape the heat and the booze
Before they let it get the best of them
But I pity the fool who pays attention to me
On a hot day in the San Fernando Valley
On a bleacher at the Studio City Park
At an unsteady table at the Oyster Shack
Where I drown my lethargy in a funnel of hops
And barely muster the energy to mask my indifference
Drag my dad out to the car
After a prolonged exit
After I pay my respects to my uncle
And finally, make it to the car,
Where mom waits and I shed my disinterest.

Your Spring Dress

Your spring dress
Isn’t so much a dress
As it is a plaid cotton long-sleeved shirt opened at the third button on your hairy chest
Because I’m the girl who still wears the dresses
And you’re the man who wears the underpants, sometimes, in this sort-of relationship
It’s a surfer thing, you said
Which I might have understood
Had I not been anticipating the feel of your smooth skin against my body
I only called it a dress because it's the garment that attracts young love in springtime
When young ladies like myself are all aflutter and blooming
Noticing men who are looking at me, and noticing that you might be casually looking too
Beneath the billowy skirt of my sun-dried hair
Where your mark lies hidden
A reminder of the cusp of something new
That I certainly hope will last beyond September

I am no spring romancer
But you, my dear, are irresistible
In your slow way, you call me girl
And I feel a tingle under my skin, down there
I am alight in your presence
Spinning well before midnight
When my romantic side normally gives over to my lavish sexuality
This is the adjective I think of lying in your bed
The next day, this early morning,
Whenever it was when we opened our eyes
When I took my time in telling you how good your body felt against mine

Lavish, languor, sensuality
These luscious terms that I roll upon my tongue when I am thinking Sex in slow and undulating rhythms
To be honest, I am always thinking of sex
Though it’s not the same when I have someone like you to incite me
Then I get a faint aching; for you I am restless,
Requiring your body
This isn’t the best time I could conceive of
To start pining for somebody…
To start marking my weeks from the moment I leave your bed ‘til next Friday
But I am happy

I am content with this new memory to mull over
To have laid you on top of me
And watched you nestle between my forgiving breasts
You are sheer manliness
Both vulnerable and strong
I want to write you an epic poem
And watch you turn it into song
I want to watch you twist my words gently
Filling in the gaps with your music

I am all clichés in the early days of spring
All nonsense and tulips springing from my lips like nature’s candy
I talk of spring dresses because I am begetting the image of a coquette
Fashioning myself with the help of your hands
Those hands that labored on the weekends in high school
Tending ripe avocadoes before it was hipster-cool
Leading you in a slow dance
Over the boundaries of propriety and taboo
Asking you permission before I tell you
What I’m looking forward to doing next time
With you

Tastes like Anis

I cannot seem to keep my eyes open for anything some days
Malaise of life you pass me while I mumble (but never stutter)
And think maybe I should grasp onto the positive light
Expand it like a prism
Repeat the good thoughts circulating
Above this aching chasm
I flounder,
And want
For words which will transport me beyond the funk I’m in
I seek the capacity for bullshit, and I am stumped.
So I slump, mellow in my shoes,
Slower and softer than I would if I thought this were to have some consequence
Or taint my social graces
So I let my words linger, draw them lazy on the air
Sparing no one the painstaking creation of
My lethargy. It isn’t fair
I think, to let myself go like this
Wishing that I could pull myself up by the strands,
The wisps that fall slovenly and solemn around my tired cherub’s face
I embrace the wallowing
The walking slumber
The dusty charcoal sketched upon my tangerine skin
I notice that I’m looking a bit orange
Before I remark casually three or four times
That I might be hungover
But nothing will condone for the empty bowl that I have left there
Sitting on the counter surrounded by its neighbors
Who wish that I would really just suck it up and attend to responsibility
But instead I linger
In the warm cove that I call languor
Eat a pastry and remark that the next (unnecessary) one tastes of anis

I will do anything to avoid sitting down to write this tome
So much potential,
Yet by the dearth of information, I am overwhelmed
So instead, I seek to fill it with mind games
Fillers of sorts,
Cotton candy
And those literal sweets in which I have recently delighted
Which satiate something in me that I cannot define
I will sit,
And sleep,
And watch,
Breathing in the reverie
Of the English countryside
The stereotype depicted on the silver screen
Which lights my warm cocoon
Finally, I emerge
Not wanting to step on the cold tile, lest I catch a chill
Wanting this warmth to last forever
At least until May 17th (or I guess I should say the 28th of April)
I disguise my time racking up slightly bitter exploits
Like checking my email for the third (or countless) time today
And then answering a friend request on facebook
Answering a late message
And finding the answer to my lethargy in a poem by a new “friend”, Anis, who I know from poetry and fell for once before
Watching reams of videos on youtube while I felt the freedom rise inside me

What a perfect culmination to a day
Whose morning was spent gorging
On some shared and borrowed histories
Not realizing I might have been eating at D-----land
But no, no, really. It wasn’t that kitschy
It was good food with prepared plates and plastic cutlery
I found it all so restorative
The tired void's been rendered
Now only a lazy vice at my temples
After the first bite
My ability to shoot the shit was restored
No need for real bullshit here
Just a little tact and good timing.
I could navigate the social situation after eating
And then spend the rest of the day anxiously languoring
Waiting for a phone call that never came
Which was a pleasant surprise
And fulfilling a contract to father
That I might have had to break
Though I try as I might
I could never truly open my eyes

Light sleeper

If sleep is the moment of death
Then I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t immortal
I, lying dormant in my portal,
Hibernate but never find the time to make my subconscious happy
I neglect my circumstances
And make up nuanced stories
Flirt with moonlight dances
And resign myself to boredom
So much potential sleep
Like the moment after a run
Exalted from exhaustion
Ready for another one
I crave the steady rhythm
Crazy we are falling in love with ourselves we are spinning into oblivion
We never know
How we got there
I find solace in the moment of wakening
Rise not refreshed but submissive
A loner too
Keep private my deprivation
I wouldn’t call it wanting necessarily
But merely lacking what nourishes me
Nevertheless, the simplicity of nothingness eludes me
I paint sheep into gophers
And dig holes in the cerebral canvas, bury them by number
Counting 1, 2, 3…
I have
Crossed fences and county lines even
Dreamt of sleepwalking
And losing myself in the purgatory of a featureless night
Remembering things
Sometimes I find it hard to distinguish between dreams and reality
As if I had forgotten them since the night before
As if remembering could restore the light back to my psyche
But no, I am no such head case
Just a restless sleeper dabbling in psychoses
Wishing for a reason or a joke or a number to keep me going
Something that would explain my sleepless nights
Like the countless reasons to keep on living.

Day N Night

Block houses and dry heat

My mouth tastes of garlic

And my feet are swollen

Slipping into flats

My mind flashes to water

And my body aches for Santa Monica Boulevard

I would run through Beverly Hills

Barefoot, even,

If I had the chance

Cabin Fever

Is a bitch of a muse

She sits on my winged shoulders

And wheedles her way into the back of my mind

I am too impatient for the pen

Too bloated to run

So sensitive to changes in the weather

I loathe the stair

And relish the concrete

Preferring flat planes

To escalators that lead to nowhere

Twirling on my tight-skinned toes

I am finding that

I am incapable of moving

Beyond the reaches of this box

Or traversing these walls

Wishing I would end up in West Los Angeles

Sickened air and all

But clean-

er somehow.

I am skepticallllllllll.
(of myself).

The start of something

Seeing you come through
is a good reason
to think about the El
at Jackson
and that amalgam of stores I never went into

In A White Space On Sunday Morning

"_______ ! Where you running? _______ ? Why you running?"

And I lay still
Caught in a white space on Sunday morning
Submerged in my covers
Thinking about a Lolita dress
And a semi-impotent man on the underside of 40
Reminiscing and imagining
the time that we ate side-by-side
Smiling
under the disapproving glare
of a young woman with her family
Yes, I am too young
And to me too,
this seems dirty
But when he and I went to
make out in the parking lot,
I forgot about everything
Now it occurs to me
that there might have been
Something else
missing from our lovemaking
And I wonder,
Did I tell him not to
Or did he just not like to
Or am I simply blocking out
the memory?
When I look down,
between my imaginary legs
I see two eyes glinting
and his familiar sneer
But I wonder if I am just
imagining him there.
He says that I made him
happy
When I was with him,
I only remember his sinister voice
And when he told me
"Your legs are abnormally
large for your body."
I can thank him for nothing
except his sweet sweet dog
who would spoon with me
when he would go to get
coffee, early morning
or the symbol that he was
for me
Something I made up in my
memory about the proof I needed,
A reason to go on running

Is there such thing as too late
Such a day that I can no longer say to you
That I'm still ok
I'm still in love
with the idea of us
We are friends
And that for me never goes away
I would like to ask you about your parents
Tell you funny stories
Relate about our embarrassing moments
And push the envelope like we do
You are the embodiment of an era
and a memory
A time and a place
A voice and a laugh
I might know what your body looks like
I could have memorized it before
Or we weren't that close
But I know
what your eyes look like
And I know how you write your 'i's
So why don't you tell me about that tattoo
Or those few years when we thought
we were something else
I miss you

For whom, I can't remember yet

If you come to LA, I will show you
I will tell you what is otherness
If you come to LA, I will bestow
upon you
Love, Inclusion, and Freedom
from that stereotypical emptiness
That glaring sun,
which burns a hole in each poor victim's likeness
In the Valley,
thinking,
This is it
I'm here
What's next?
When you come to LA
I will lavish upon you
Kisses, Romance, and
Sex
The scent of the Sunset Strip--
All that I know of my existence,
Which is not yet suppressed.
I will give you
Sweet, Salty and Wet
I will give you the beach,
my beach
and the Boardwalk
And my time,
which is nothing much yet
When you arrive in Los Angeles,
all fresh and new and pink
and wet
I will give you my past loves,
and with you,
I will share my new flames
(I know you don't want them yet)
But when you come to LA,
My eyes won't shed a tear
because I am not that deep yet
No doubt, you will see me cry
And I will vet your love,
But as of yet,
I am alone
And the Santa Anas have
desiccated my tearducts.
And when you come to LA,
I will tell you everything,
but I am not there yet

Working Title

They say when it rains it pours
And that the warmth is boring
But fuck a cliché
And a tall-tale story
I am the embodiment
Of a West Side story
Grew up in Venice Beach
First generation of a West Coast family
Yes, my family hails from the East
and I'm the inaugural class
My friends are first-generation American
and I'm half-WASP

I was never equipped for winter weather
Nor the tall-tale boasting
The young men with Mediterranean skin
And an interest in clothing
Sure, I'll take a guy who knows his shit
Who can really teach me something
But if his tactics are corny
Then you can count on me ignoring

I've got no tolerance for bullshit
No will to be duped
I'd rather porch-sit even
Than be taken by cab to my stoop

Fuck a tall-tale teller
And a short story seller
I've got better things to do
Than fabricate lies to the fellas
I'll take it or leave it
I make my own decisions
I act with precision when I take into account
The type of men who approach me in this city

They say when it rains it pours
And he said I meet a lot of guys
But I can't imagine taking my clothes off
For a wink, a smile, a hello or a hi

Yeah, so shit hits the fan sometimes
And sometimes I consent to take it
But even with the recent volume of guys in my life
I could never really fake it
Take it or leave it
Sure, I'll have a conversation with you in the club
But I'm not looking for play
I am hoping for love

I felt it yesterday
in a moment of passion
And only when I released
did I realize this moment was drastic

Stop me if I say too much
or if you think I'm taking love for granted
But I can't help feeling as if
my feelings have been surplanted
...All of a sudden in love again
And now I'm getting guys attention?
Forgive me if I dare to think
the two are connected
Maybe they can read it on my face
Or else the story's in my eyes
I would have surmised that things would be different
if I had anticipated falling in love with two different guys

Like rapid fire succession
And a total recall of the heart
I transferred over feelings
before I ever felt the dearth
I never knew the loss of the first
Only the joy of moving on
The ease of transition
Like turning the dial to another song

Radio radio
I never lost transmission

No, I just glided along a two-step to a smooth transition

So no wonder now they come
After the void that filled my life before
Knowing they recognize the fullness now
I am an attention whore

Where once I gave up on affection
Now I'm a hot commodity
with the possibility of being loved
The kind of woman that I'd be jealous of if I were all my former me's

No, I don't want for love
And I don't pine in vain
I'm never desperate anymore and
I've got no complaints

Easy come, easy go,
Like rainfall on the West Coast
And now I'm relishing the downpour
'cause I'm a tall-tale teller
And a veritable attention whore

1-17-09
finished
early
a.m.

Incredible Frustration with Life in a Matter of Hours and the Inability to Act Powerfully in One Night

Going from one wonderful afternoon into the early evening. We depart the house and decide to eat at the vegan Ethiopian restaurant on Fairfax. We arrive after 7 p.m. My dance class starts at 8. I've known all along that something was going to get in the way of doing this class. I've already declined to attend the Actor's Lounge with Sanyu. Though I don't care much for struggling actors and their 5-minute allotments for performance, I know that the night would be fun. Adam would be there, and now I know that Joshua is going too. He is performing actually. With Joe, my old mentor, the one who Joshua wouldn't tell the last time that he and I dated. He was keeping me a secret. I'm a kept woman, or I was, at 19. Now, at 21, my status is still unclear.
What is clear is that I am going to miss this class. Joshua lets me know the time at 7:45 p.m. I get a box for my food, which has arrived only minutes earlier. It is hot and still smelling good once I get into the car. First I give Joshua a kiss goodbye and, puzzled, suggest meeting up tomorrow. What is this new relationship? I don't know. Today, Joshua told me it would be "fun to fall in love with [me]," or something to that extent. He is open with his thoughts, sharing them like a favorite book. Read me! Here, you don't have to, I'll just read it for you!
So I get to the car, knowing full well that I will not be making the class on time. I have a 5-minute debate with myself as to whether taking the freeway would be more economical time-wise than driving all the way back on Venice Blvd. I end up taking Venice, cursing every few or so lights. I am frustrated. And the food smells good.
After the endless trek is finally done, I park and proceed to change in my car. Reversing my seat back, I shimmy out of my jeans and put on my old thin Scripps College sweatpants in red. Then my socks, then my sneakers, laced, and I am out. To the door, and what do I find? It's locked. The door to the dance studio is locked and there are people inside warming up. But no one is at the front desk. It is as if Katnap has given the keys to the dance teacher just to open up for this particular spot. I believe that is the truth. There aren't many classes at this studio anyways. Alas, the warm-up actually looks hard. Women in yoga pants are stretching their legs back in an arabesque. I do a double take. Is this really hip hop?
Eventually, I give up. It was only half-way through my ride home that I realized I should turn back. What should have happened is that, I, wanting to spend more time with friends, more time with Joshua, and more of my precious free-time doing fun stuff now that I have to think about studying for the LSAT this break (WHAT?), well I should have stayed put at dinner. Eaten my delicious vegan Ethiopian food that, instead, steamed up my passenger seat on the futile ride to the dance studio. Made an entrance at the Actor's Lounge. Seen Joe, who I barely see these days. See if Joe noticed anything between Joshua and I (haha). And had a pleasant time like I always do. And maybe have gone home with Joshua. Alas...

side note: As I wrote this post last night, sitting in my red Scripps sweatpants and a bright yellow pullover, feeling a little uncomfortable in my body and thinking I should just go to the gym, I thought I lost the post. When I clicked the 'PUBLISH POST' button, the website turned into one of those lost domains where URLs that don't really exist take you. The kind that's not a real website, because you just typed in something like wwwlfacebook.co. or some shit like that. So, infuriated and laughing at the minute personal injustices of my evening, I went to bed. Lo and behold, this morning I awoke, checked on my blog drafts to see if this one might have possibly been saved, and it was! Hurrah! I'm still mad, though, because I lost the end of the blog, which was good. And, I woke up this morning at some ungodly hour like 8:38 a.m. dreaming a dream of frustration, depicted in a very uncomfortable way.

Aaaaand we're back!

My first poem of the New Year:

Ours was wanderlust from the start
crazy committed perfection
And then, wanderlust
Rife with wondering
How something so seemingly perfect,
something comfortable and seamless
Could be lost
A fragment so minute
As to be perceived as insignificant
The faintest flood
As if quieted thoughts
Could be ignored
I dared not acknowledge
what I bore
What I said
I could not bear to say to him
My story was for everyone else and
Only my flickering love for him,
The rest given to the air

1-4-09